A Whisper and a Clamor
by enough-to-let-me-go
Summary: The drugs wouldn't kill him, but the guilt of death would.
1. Prologue

" _No, you cannot keep a sparrow. You can only hope that as they fly away, they take a little bit of you with them." –Emm Cole_

o.O.o

For a moment, Spencer was unsure whether or not he was awake. The white-hot glare of the light above him all but blinded him. He quickly slammed his eyes shut and willed the pain to leave. Why did the sun have to be so bright?

His attention was drawn to a shuffling noise coming from his left. Was it danger? _Weapon_ , he told himself. _Find a weapon_. He panicked when his arms refused to move. A weight landed softly on his immobile left arm. The predator had reached him. His breathing grew even more ragged. The slow burning sensation in his chest was quickly developing into a blazing inferno.

He wanted to cry as another weight landed on the top of his head, softly smoothing his hair.

 _Kill me quick_ , he pleaded mentally. _Please_.

And then another thought, scarier than any monster or possible brush with death he could be facing, hit him.

Where was—

"Reid, hey, you're okay."

Spencer knew that voice. Over the past three years, that voice had given him solid advice on profiling, berated him for making reckless decisions, and had held deep concern and respect, often disguised behind a firm tone but warm eyes. Mostly, though, that voice just sounded like solidarity and trust.

Spencer slowly turned his head to the side and pried his eyes open. He wasn't outside, lying paralyzed on the ground in the middle of nowhere like he had originally thought. He was lying in a hospital bed, which was arguably even less comfortable. Machines were whirring and beeping all around him. He felt the pinch of an oxygen monitor clipped to the end of his left index finger and the tubing of an oxygen cannula draped across his face. It made his nose itch.

"Hey, there." The man who had somehow become his father-figure, whispered. Spencer watched his bottom lip tremble. Were those tears in Hotch's eyes?

Spencer moved his mouth, forming Hotch's name, but there was no sound. He decided to blame it on his dehydrated tongue and not how tired he was feeling, despite sleeping for hours… Days? Weeks? He needed answers. He attempted what was a questioning expression and blinked at his boss.

"You had surgery four days ago and you've been sleeping since," Hotch explained. His voice was carefully void of emotion, but Spencer could read it—whatever _it_ was— in his dark eyes and in his posture. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw was tight, and his hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. "The doctor ran tests, but nothing was showing. Dammit, Reid." Hotch gasped in a shaking breath and ran the palm of his hand over Spencer's head.

The simple gesture let him know that there was something drastically wrong. Hotch was being far too vulnerable now. Spencer felt his eyes water as he locked eyes with Hotch. _I'm sorry_.

Hotch patted his arm gently and said nothing. There was a silence between them that was neither comforting, nor unsettling. Spencer just laid there with the feather-like touch of Hotch's fingers brushing his arm and no recollection of the cause for his current situation. He was too tired to think too long on anything though, so Hotch chose that moment to press the large red button on the bedside remote. A nurse appeared moments later.

Kathryn introduced herself to Spencer and welcomed him back to the land of the living. He observed her, as she messed with the machines and intravenous lines draining into his arm. She was in her mid-forties, with a petite build, hair the color of honey, and eyes as blue as the Pacific Ocean that he remembered from the various times they had had cases on the west coast. He knew she was a mother, from the way she looked at him and talked with that soft, soothing tone; the tone he was sure she had used hundreds of times to ease her child's fears or pains or worries. He found it actually worked. By the time she left, with a promise to return in a couple of minutes with a cup of ice chips, Spencer was half asleep.

He looked to Hotch for affirmation that it would be all right if he just took a quick nap. His boss grinned, a rare sight indeed. It did not reach his eyes, Spencer noticed.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised. Spencer knew he meant it, so with a gentle squeeze to Hotch's firm hand, Spencer closed his eyes and slept.

o.O.o

Spencer slept for another ten hours, and when he finally woke it was due to the searing pain ripping through his skull and spreading to every last inch of his body. His brain, paralyzed by the pure agony, forgot to tell his lungs how to function. Spencer lay on the too firm mattress gasping and whimpering and weeping. The sounds of the machines now whirring erratically around him began to fade out, as did the rest of the room.

Spencer gaped, wide-eyed at the face that appeared above him. His panic rose as he recognized it as not Hotch. He wanted Hotch. He needed reassurance that he would be all right.

He got none of that.

He vaguely heard a deep voice shouting orders. The nasal cannula was replaced by a mask. Something was injected into the intravenous line inserted in the top of his hand. Someone kicked the brakes on the bottom of his bed, and then he was rolling down the hall, surrounded by strangers all wearing navy blue scrubs and concerned expressions. The small jolt caused from entering the elevator caused his head to bounce. The voices, panicked yet professional, drifted away as Spencer's vision was replaced by darkness.

o.O.o

He woke up again. The experience was harrowing and uncomfortable, much like the first time. Hotch was still there. He felt immensely relieved, even though he had had no doubt that Hotch would keep his promise.

The lights were dimmed now, but he still found himself squinting as he collected his bearings. There were still multiple IVs connected to him. A pulse oximeter was still clipped to his index finger. He had been transferred to the nasal cannula again. He prodded the wrapping around his head. That was definitely not there before.

Hotch gently pulled his prying fingers away from his head. Spencer didn't even try to fight him, so he let his arm fall back to the mattress none too gracefully.

"Hi." He was surprised at how weak he still sounded. He wasn't even sure if it qualified as a whisper.

"They missed some bleeding after your first surgery," Hotch told him. It certainly didn't sound like Hotch. "They've stopped it all this time."

Spencer didn't understand. What was he talking about? Surgery? On his head?

" _Are you using?"_

" _I told you I wasn't!"_

" _Do_ not _lie to me, Spencer."_

He remembered.

The argument. The yelling. The guilt, but also the pride that refused to allow him to apologize and admit defeat. The changing of the green light to red. The screeching of the tires and the brakes as the SUV stopped suddenly. The eighteen wheeler that came out of nowhere.

His chest constricted.

"Where's Gideon?"

He felt nothing and everything at once. His hands were numb as they fisted the crisp bedsheets. He couldn't seem to break his gaze from where it rested on the tops of his feet that peeked out from the edge of the bed. His lungs worked in small sporadic bursts, not allowing him deep breaths, but still keeping him breathing. He was going to hyperventilate. Everything was warped. The walls and the floor seemed to melt together, changing from stark whites and muted blues to wild reds and oranges, but a dark border lingered at all times.

"Where's Gideon?" he asked again. The panic was impossible to hide.

He was shaking now, a full body rattle that hurt him more than he could imagine, but he couldn't stop. He felt Hotch grip his forearms, but the man said nothing. Spencer began to cry.

"Reid, Spencer, Gideon is dead."

* * *

 **Please don't kill me.**

 **In my head, this is set sometime in the second half of season two, after Hankel but before the finale.** **I cannot guarantee consistent updates, but I vow to not abandon this.**

 **Please leave a review and follow. It's going to be a wild, depressing ride.**


	2. One

The ride from the hospital to Hotch's house five days later is silent and tense. Neither man says a word because there is both nothing and too much to say. Spencer's leg, the one that isn't surrounded midway with a tan ace bandage, bounces incessantly. Hotch has to resist the urge to reach over and stop it. He glances at his subordinate out of the corner of his eye.

Spencer looks almost as haggard as he did four days ago. He hasn't said much in the last few days. Nothing about Gideon, or the wreck, or how he is really feeling, or the nightmares. It worries Aaron much more than he would ever admit. He really isn't the type for heart to heart interventions, but if something doesn't change soon, he might have to do just that.

The green light ahead changes to yellow. He slows to a stop four seconds before the light turns red. At the same time, a gray Toyota pulls to a stop to their right at the intersection. Beside him, Spencer's breath hitches. He clenches his eyes tightly shut and flinches. Aaron knows the action is involuntary and will probably stay with Spencer for quite some time, if not forever.

Against his better judgment he asks, "Are you alright?"

Spencer stiffens and stares straight ahead. He's trying to give the impression of looking out the windshield, but Hotch can see that his eyes are locked firmly on the top of the dash.

"I'm fine." His voice is full of venom and regret. It speaks volumes that Aaron is afraid to hear.

The light turns green. Nothing else is said until they pull into Aaron's driveway. One quick glance at the passenger seat, and he can see that Spencer's earlier behavior is long gone. What's left is a trembling, scared boy in desperate need of a hug and a promise that everything will get better.

Hotch turns the SUV off and walks around to Spencer's side of the car. Before they had left the hospital, Spencer had refused to take the wheelchair the nurses insisted he have but had begrudgingly agreed to the crutches. Hotch wasn't sure of the practicality of them since Spencer's wrist was plastered, but he didn't want to argue. He pulls the crutches from the back of the SUV now and readies them as he pulls the passenger door open.

Spencer is panicking. His breaths are coming in short, unsteady gasps. His eyes are clenched shut as he leans backward into the headrest. His good hand is fisted into the tops of his sweatpants, knuckles turning white with every passing second. Hotch props the crutches against the open door and prepares to diffuse the situation.

"Reid, look at me," he orders as he gently grasps his subordinate's forearms. He continues to coax the boy until he lets out one last shuddering breath and opens his eyes, blinking away a few tears in the process. His fingers let go of his pants long enough to brush away the wetness creeping onto his cheeks. The sight cuts deep into Aaron's soul.

"Maybe this is a bad idea." Spencer's voice is raw and so full of pain that it physically hurts to hear it.

"It's not," Hotch insists. The temperature is dropping and clouds are gathering overhead. Doom and gloom seems to be the common theme. "Come on. Let's go inside before it starts to rain."

It is a slow and painful process, getting Spencer out of the vehicle, but they do it. The ride has made him stiff and as he begins to move, his injuries reawaken with a vengeance. Hotch can see the effort he takes to push through, but Hotch can also see the effort that fails.

As they shuffle up the concrete pathway, he hears the front door open. Haley is standing there with her arms crossed and an expression on her face that ensures Aaron they will have words later. It has taken countless promises and pleads to convince her to agree to this, but clearly there is more to be said.

Once they finally make it to the door, Haley drops her arms to her side and the scowl leaves her face, although she still looks very upset. Hotch takes the next step.

"Reid, you remember my wife, Haley."

Spencer raises his hand, the one wrapped partially in a cast, in a timid wave. "Hello, Mrs. Hotchner."

"Dr. Reid." Aaron begs her with his eyes to be civil. She steps aside and gives them space to enter the house fully. "Please, come in. Sit down. You look exhausted."

It's subtle, but Hotch sees Spencer look to him out of the corner of his eye, as if asking for permission to do as Haley has offered. It feels wrong that Spencer should be this intimidated by his wife. It feels wrong that Spencer should need permission to enter his home. Hotch makes a mental note to schedule more team bonding exercises.

A gentle tug at the boy's elbow and they are crossing the threshold. Haley shuts the door behind them and awkwardly stands on the tile landing looking conflicted as to what her next move should be. As Hotch helps Spencer settle onto the couch, Haley clears her throat.

"Would you like a drink? Coffee? Water?"

Hotch watches Spencer lick his lips nervously. They are dry and cracked. Hotch worries he is on the way to dehydration. Before the polite "no thank you" has left his colleague's tongue, Hotch answers that a glass of water would be nice seeing that it is time for Spencer's next round of antibiotics. Spencer stiffens as he waits for Haley's reaction, but she only nods her head once and disappears through the archway that leads from the dining room into the kitchen.

"Are you sure you'll be ok down here?"

Three days ago, after one of many times that Aaron had entered the room only to find Spencer crying in his hospital bed insisting he was fine when obviously he was not, Hotch had prompted the idea of offering his home to Spencer for his recovery. Reid had, of course, steadfastly refused. Hotch had, of course, been persistent in his offering, until Spencer had finally admitted to needing the help.

" _Only for a few days,"_ he had insisted.

Even now, Hotch knows it will be more than a few days. The kid doesn't know it, but the team is a family.

Then there had been the matter of sleeping arrangements. It was painfully clear that Spencer would not be residing in one of the many guest rooms upstairs. Reid had insisted the couch would be more than fine. Even now, Hotch is still unsure how well the couch will be for Spencer's healing.

"Hotch," Spencer's voice is small and so very thankful. "You've already done more than enough. The couch is fine, I swear."

Haley comes in then with a glass of iced water in hand. She smiles feebly and Spencer accepts it with a sincere thank you. Hotch rummages through the clear bag of belongings the hospital has given the patient—Spencer's badge, messenger bag, and prescriptions, everything else had been lost in the wreck—until he finds the bottle he is looking for and shakes out two small white pills. He hates that he does it, but he studies Spencer carefully to make sure he does swallow them and that they don't disappear with a magical flick of his wrist.

He hears a closet door shut somewhere down the hall and knows that Haley is bringing a pillow and blanket.

"It will be a while before dinner is ready," she says. She is holding a large, fluffy pillow covered in a white sham, and a baby blue and gray checkered quilt.

Spencer stands on shaking knees and reaches for the bedding. Hotch resists laying a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. I'll—I, uh, I'll just take a nap. I'm pretty tired. Thank you."

He sets the pillow and quilt onto the couch then politely asks where the bathroom is. Hotch offers to show him, but Reid's eyebrows wrinkle and his cheeks redden. Hotch gives directions and lets him go. When Spencer has disappeared around the corner and out of view, Hotch turns to his wife, who is standing with her arms crossed and a warning glare in her eyes.

Hotch breathes deeply and counts to ten. It is going to be a long evening.

o.O.o

Aaron is standing beside the open door to his half of the walk-in closet now, listening as his wife rants and raves behind him. He knows she is pacing in an oblong circle. Her feet are making permanent indentations in the off-white carpet. He snatches an old t-shirt and slips it over his head as Haley starts from the beginning again.

It has been the same argument for the past twenty-three minutes and Aaron knows that it will be the same argument twenty-three minutes from now. Haley was relentless. It was one of the reasons he had married her. At the time—and sometimes even still—it had seemed like a wonderful trait. Haley's forwardness and her constant determination had been attractive to Aaron. She wasn't afraid to speak her opinion and thought little of what other's said about her. It was admirable.

But as of late, he is beginning to wonder if it is as welcoming as he originally thought.

It is no secret that Haley disapproves of how he spends his time outside of work. She makes that clear when he spends time talking about his teammates rather than agreeing to have dinner with their other married friends. If he so much as mentions a case—not even the details, just the word 'case'—she tells him to change the subject; that the subject will not be discussed in this house. She readily tells him how she feels when he brings his work home, and now, it seems, Spencer falls into this category.

"There are four other people on your team. I just don't understand why you think you have to be responsible for him. He is a grown man, Aaron. Stop treating him like a child. He knew what this career meant when he signed onto it."

This time, he snaps. He whips around in a fury, knowing his face is a deep red by now, nearing an unnatural shade of purple.

"Because it was supposed to be me!" He jabs a finger into his chest. The contact feels hard enough to bruise. He hopes it does. "I was supposed to be in that car. Not Jason!"

The room is deathly still. Haley's eyes widen in horror at the possibility of what should have—could have—been. He sees her lip quiver, and at first he thinks that's all it is, but then he notices that it is a full body tremor. He gasps for breath, closes his eyes, and reins in his sudden burst of anger. He listens for any sign that Jack has woken and is relieved when he hears silence.

"Aaron?" Haley's voice is soft now. It sounds like it does not belong to her.

Hotch blinks his damp eyes rapidly and thinks about his next words. He runs a shaky hand through his hair as he sits on the foot of the bed. Haley slowly sinks onto the mattress beside him. Hesitantly, she places her palm against his back and rubs small circles.

He swallows. "The day of the accident, things had been difficult. Reid had been off. You remember how he was kidnapped a few months ago?"

Haley nods, looking ashamed. "I remember."

"He doesn't like to ask for help and he doesn't know how to express emotions. Unless he is pressured into it, he tends to hold things in until he self-destructs. Jason and I had discussed it previously, but after Reid made a critical mistake in the profile, we decided to take action.

"I volunteered to take Spencer to interview one of the family members with me, but at the last second, Jason insisted he go, saying that he had a better understanding of how Reid works. I relented because there was truth to his words. Jason was his mentor and had become the father he never had."

He is crying now, something he never does outside of home, aside from the day Jack was born.

"When I got to the scene…" His words fail him and he is forced to try again. "When I got to the scene, I knew no one could have survived. The SUV—Haley, there was no SUV. There was a crushed piece of metal in the middle of the road. I saw stretchers, two bodies covered, and then Spencer…"

The tears only increase in severity. He hiccups once and stutters for breath as the realization of the past nine days comes down hard onto his shoulders and settles somewhere deep inside his chest. It _hurts_.

Haley pulls him sideways and wraps both of her arms around him. It is the weakest he has ever felt, but it is the strongest physical force he has ever felt. His head tucks into the area beneath her chin and collarbone and he stays there until he is completely spent.

* * *

 **Sorry.**

 **I'm honestly not sure where I'm going with this now. I know I said I wouldn't abandon this- and I'm still holding myself to that promise- but real life sucks and takes away all inspiration, sometimes. Who knows when I'll update again. I might, and I deeply apologize for this, be that person who rearranges the order of chapters. Sorry in advance. I suck.**

 **Also, I'm not entirely sure on recovery time for Spencer's injuries. Let's call this artistic license, hmm?**

 **And I changed the tense... I have no explanation for this. It just sort of happened.**


	3. Two

Baby Jack is screaming again. Haley is running around frantically trying to figure out where she has last laid his pacifier. The bottle she offered him three minutes ago went flying off of the highchair table not long after she had placed it there and now rests beneath the China cabinet in the corner of the room. Spencer wishes there was something he could do, but every time he so much as opens his mouth, Haley sends him a quick look—honestly, it is hardly more than a second-long glance—but it is enough to still him in his thoughts. It is probably for the best though. Babies usually do not respond well to him for some reason.

The phone begins to ring. Haley curses and the sound of her frustration sets Jack off into another, louder, round of wailing. She walks briskly from the room, shushing Jack over her shoulder, and a moment later Spencer can hear her speaking with someone on the phone.

He _thinks_ his eardrums are going to explode. He _knows_ his head is going to explode.

All things considered, his head is healing nicely from the surgery. But the headaches are unreal. The current migraine started two days ago and the outlook isn't looking so promising. He knows Jack is only an infant, but he wants to tell him to shut up. Lingering in the dark recesses of his mind is also the knowledge that he hasn't had a hit in two weeks. The prescription pain meds that Hotch monitors his use of were an acceptable placeholder for a few days, but now he finds himself craving the real thing.

 _Just a little. Please,_ he begs internally.

He shakes his head no and immediately winces.

He hears the unmistakable sounds of glass shattering. He cannot imagine what it can be, but Jack seems completely undisturbed by it.

Spencer decides it's about time for someone to find the pacifier. He reaches for a crutch and uses it as leverage to pull himself up from the couch. After he is standing, he tucks it under his shoulder and holds it in a death grip as he shuffles into the dining room.

Jack looks at him with wide, wet eyes and lets out another wail. Spencer isn't sure what to do, so he waves. His eyes catch the debris on the floor. His best guess is that it was a small water glass. He hopes it wasn't too important. The bottle from earlier catches his attention. He is sore and stiff and knows this much movement is going to cause him agony, but he ventures forward with determination. Slowly and quite awkwardly, he bends until his fingers are grazing the base of the plastic bottle. His grip loosens for a second and the bottle spins sideways. As it stops, the nipple pushes something just into his sight.

It is the freaking pacifier.

His bum leg is stretched behind him and he toddles as he loses his balance. He braces himself with his good arm and grits his teeth as a hot line of fire shoots upward. His sweaty palm slips on the hardwood floor and before he knows it, he is flat on his side. He wants to scream and cry and yell, but he doesn't.

Slowly he sits upright and leans against the cabinets. He is trying to catch his breath when Haley makes a reappearance.

"Doctor Reid, what are you doing?"

He isn't really sure what to make of her tone. He holds his palm out with the pacifier in hand.

"Oh," she says. She takes a small step forward, then backs up and turns to Jack as she catches sight of the mess of the floor. When she sees he is unharmed, she steps forward again and this time she doesn't stop until she is crouched beside Spencer on the floor. "Thank you."

She takes the pacifier from him and tells him to stay still until she comes back. He closes his eyes as he leans his head against the cabinets and reopens them when Jack miraculously becomes silent. He sees the pacifier placed firmly in the baby's mouth and can't help but marvel how something so seemingly insignificant as a pacifier can satisfy the child's needs.

Haley is beside him now. She looks hesitant still. She reaches out her hand, but it hovers above his arm. She takes it back. "Are you hurt?"

"Nothing new," he assures her. His knee is throbbing and he is sure she knows it. Her gaze flickers to his hand.

"You're bleeding."

It's hardly even a scratch. He must not have dodged the glass as well as he thought. He presses a finger into his palm to stop the flow. "I'm sorry. I was trying to help."

"You did. Thank you." He notices for the first time that she sounds sincere. "I should get this sorted before Aaron comes home."

She holds out her hand to assist him and he cautiously accepts it. He regrets stretching his leg like he did. It pops and jerks as he attempts to put pressure on it. He is supposed to start physical therapy next week and the thought of it makes him physically ill. Haley leads him to the table and he sinks gratefully into a chair. She returns a few minutes later with a warm washcloth and a few small bandages.

Her voice is equally as gentle as her hands as she begins to clean the fresh wounds. It is almost unsettling. "It doesn't look like any fragments got inside."

He says nothing. Instead, he focuses on Jack who is dozing in his highchair. All of that for a pacifier… he still can't wrap his head around it.

"I'm sorry for the way I have treated you." Haley successfully brings his attention back to her. His palm is clean now and a small band-aid lays atop a small laceration near the center.

He isn't sure what to say to this, so he says nothing.

"I just really hate Aaron's job sometimes and I tend to lash out at anyone involved. It is wrong, I know, and I am sorry." She shakily brushes a piece of hair behind her ear. "He told me how he was supposed to be in the car. I can't stop thinking about it." She looks him directly in the eyes now. The room feels small and suffocating. "I wish I could erase it from your memory."

He continues to stay silent. He has no words, nothing coherent anyway. He is sure that if he starts to talk he will be unable to stop until he is either hoarse from screaming or dead. He fancies the latter.

"I'm going to take him upstairs, then would you like some lunch?"

Spencer blinks out of his thoughts and swallows twice before answering. He worries how his voice will sound. "OK. Um, yes. Thank you."

He is right, he thinks. His voice sounds as hollow and empty as he imagined it would.

o.O.o

Maybe it is because it is the first decent sized meal he eats in days. Maybe it is because of his migraine. Maybe it is the withdrawals that he knows are making themselves known. Maybe it is a combination of it all. No matter what it is, he spends the rest of the afternoon and the better part of the evening vomiting into the first floor toilet. The first time it happens though, he is too slow in moving and his knee gives out as he takes the second step. It is the second mess he causes in the house today and he is sure he will die from the humiliation. Haley is instantly reassuring him that it is no problem. Hotch tries the same, even as he all but drags him into the bathroom afterwards.

Now he wraps his arms around his middle in hopes of stopping the nausea. He feels hot and sticky. He knows he is running a fever. He looks at Hotch through glassy eyes as the man peeks his head around the doorway. He catches sight of the cup of something in his hand.

"How's the head?"

Spencer closes his eyes in answer.

"Do you think we need to make a trip to the hospital?"

This, he does have an answer for. "No."

He thinks he might vomit again. He wishes Hotch would leave. He _really_ wishes he had a needle and a full vial of dilaudid.

The glass clinks as Hotch sets it on the tile floor. "You need to stay hydrated."

Spencer already knows this, of course, but he thanks Hotch for the effort anyway. He expects the man to leave, but his boss doesn't. Instead Hotch settles down beside him until the two of them are almost brushing shoulders.

"Is there anything I can do to help with the withdrawals?" Hotch's voice is lower than a whisper. Spencer wonders if Haley is lurking in the hallway. He prays she is not. "You're going to be okay, Spencer."

Hotch's hand grips Spencer's shoulder firmly. It is the most solid he feels in days, but he still doesn't believe it.


	4. Three

Spencer is sitting on the outer end of the second to last row because it is the least crowded area in the room. The hundreds of voices blend together into one massive roar that deafens him. His nerves begin to get the best of him, he notices, as his fingers begin to gather the material of his dress pants, crumpling it, releasing it, and starting the process over again. He searches the room for a familiar face, preferably someone from his team, but there are too many people. He becomes stock-still when the shadow of another person suddenly looms over him.

He has never officially met Stephen Gideon, has only seen his square face in pictures and heard stories about him occasionally from his now late father, but he would know him instantly, even if in a room crowded by hundreds of people. Looking at him now, Spencer feels unreasonably nervous and guilty. How is it fair that he spent more time with Stephen's father in the few years he had known him than Stephen had spent in his lifetime of only thirty years? Stephen is thinking the same thing, he knows.

 _He wishes you were dead, too_ , the voice inside his head snarls. Spencer agrees.

Stephen's eyes are a deep brown, but Spencer swears they flash pitch black for just a second.

"You seem to be getting along well." The statement should sound conversational, but instead it sounds accusatory. Spencer can see the foul expression on the other man's face out of his peripheral. He wants to apologize. Spencer thinks that if Stephen doesn't just kill him soon enough he will suffocate from the tension. "A broken wrist, sprained knee, cuts and bruises. Aside from your head injury, I'd say you got off rather easy."

Now Spencer wants to disappear into the floor beneath him and sink through the foundations of the building into the soil below and continue until he reaches the burning center of the earth. There, in a world of molten lava and fire, he wants to stay for eternity. A world where he is surrounded by absolutely nothing, and fear and pain are his only companions.

He is vaguely aware as another man approaches. Perhaps it is the reaper coming to give him what he wants most. What he _deserves_.

He is disappointed to see it is not.

"Mr. Rossi," Stephen addresses the newcomer. Spencer is too stunned to do anything other than stare at the depressingly blue gray carpet.

"Stephen, I wish we were meeting again under different circumstances. Your father was a great man and one of my oldest friends. He will be greatly missed, but his legacy will live on. You have much to be proud of."

Stephen says a soft thank you then dismisses himself.

Spencer forces himself to breathe now that Stephen is gone. His whole body is trembling. He clasps his hands together in an attempt to get it under control. Still not looking up, he mutters, "You didn't have to do that."

"Offer my condolences?"

Spencer stares at him then. He lets his eyes tell Rossi that he agrees with everything Stephen has said. All of those terrible things are the truth and there is no way of getting around it. Spencer expects him to offer pity or leave him be, but instead the older man narrows his eyes and looks as if he is studying a classic piece of art.

"May I?" he asks, even as he sits in the empty spot beside Spencer, not waiting for an answer. It's rude, but somehow the man gets away with it. Spencer tugs on the cuff of his suit jacket. It bulges around his plastered wrist and the sight drives him mad.

Rossi stuffs his hands into his suit coat pockets and moves his elbows in a motion that resembles wings as he tries to get comfortable. Spencer sits quietly, waiting for the story he knows is coming.

"I knew Jason for many, many years. We never saw eye to eye on everything and had more than our fair share of arguments, but we always had respect for one another. It was difficult, what with his stubbornness and my arrogance, but we always found a way to make it work.

"When Mags found out she was pregnant, we were traveling on a case. She didn't wait to make it a grand reveal for when we arrived home. She called Jason and said that she was going to stay with her mother until the baby came because she didn't know how often Jason would be home. It upset him, but he let her do it without a fight.

"After Stephen was born, Maggie and the baby moved back home. Jason didn't know what to do, didn't know how to balance the responsibilities of a demanding full-time career and a demanding wife. I, as I'm sure you know, was not the best person to offer advice. He tried for a few years, but when Stephen turned eight, Maggie took him and moved to North Carolina. She changed her phone number and blocked her address so that Jason would not be able to keep up with her. Eventually he got in touch and they worked out visitation rights as well as finalizing the divorce.

"It hurt Jason in more ways than he ever let on, but I knew him. I could read it in his every move. As Stephen got older, he began to blame Jason for everything. I can only imagine the poison that woman planted into his brain. I don't think Jason ever gave up on trying to be a father. I think he simply stopped trying because it was a one man's effort."

Rossi pauses his narrative long enough to readjust his posture. He crosses his ankles and stretches his legs in the allotted space between the pews. "And then one day while I'm on a book tour, Gideon calls me and tells me about this 'incredible young man'," he raises two fingers on both hands, forming air quotes. " _'You wouldn't believe it, Dave! He's remarkable! Not even twenty years old and has two masters and a bachelor's degree.'_ "

Rossi laughs and looks at Spencer, who furrows his brow under the man's attention. "It was like he had found the holy grail of brains. I didn't believe him at first—sorry about that, by the way. But I told him he would be stupid not to talk to you. He called me the day you signed on and again after your first case to give me an update on how well you had handled everything. He was so proud of you."

Rossi's face suddenly falls. His eyes become dark with remorse and Spencer can hear the same in his voice when he speaks again.

"I didn't answer either time. I was too drunk to really comprehend anything, but I listened to the voicemails when I was somewhat sober and typed out a quick congratulatory text message."

Spencer finds himself blinking back tears as the realization of what that text really implied. The finality of a friendship. Beside him, Rossi clears his throat and blinks a few times.

"Even after Boston and Adrian Bale… I never bothered to check in with him. Now I think about that and wonder why. Why did I do what I did? Why did Jason do what he did? But, alas, I have concluded that I will never be able to answer those questions. All I can do is believe in second chances, so that if I fail the test the first time, I can try my best to get it right the second time. I guess it works in all situations except marriage."

Spencer feels a smile on his face for the first time in… well, a very long time. It feels foreign, but he does not hate it. It is no secret that retired SSA David Rossi has had bad luck in the marriage department, and to hear that man joke about it like it is an everyday occurrence strikes something inside of him. It is the first time in weeks that he laughs. It startles him how good it feels, like a weight has been lifted off his chest. Rossi joins in and after the moment ends, he pats Spencer on the leg being careful of the brace that surrounds his knee.

"I'm glad he found you, Kid, and I'm glad you're still here."

Spencer has to fight the overwhelming urge to cry at the man's words. Not because of pride or joy, but because of the sincerity. This man that he has only ever heard of in tales until this moment, and whose books he has eagerly read and memorized too many times to count, _David Rossi_ , is proud of him.

He blinks once and Rossi vanishes into thin air, probably searching out someone else to speak with before the service starts. The space beside Spencer doesn't stay empty for long because Hotch and JJ appear with the rest of the team making their ways from the other side of the room.

"Were you just talking to David Rossi?" JJ asks curiously. The question trails off at the end, like she is in awe of what she has just seen.

Spencer swallows. "Yeah."

"He stopped me earlier," Hotch inserts. "He's been thinking about coming out of retirement. Something about taking second chances. I think Strauss is meeting with him next week."

Second chances? Rossi seems to be a man of his word, Spencer thinks. He finds himself hoping Rossi will seize this second chance. The team could use a legend like himself.

He is also making plans to have SSA David Rossi autograph every single one of his books.


End file.
